


With John

by andthebluestblue



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Blood, M/M, Masturbation, Rape Fantasy, Sexual Violence, Violence, noncon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-16
Updated: 2013-01-16
Packaged: 2017-11-25 16:35:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,914
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/640914
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/andthebluestblue/pseuds/andthebluestblue
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sebastian wakes up next to John, and remembers Jim. (And then he jerks off.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	With John

**Author's Note:**

> This work involves rather a lot of hypothetical rape, torture, and violence (fantasy rather than actual), so please read with necessary caution. 
> 
> This also sort of inadvertent fanfiction of Shayvaalski's Outsong, because it is impossible for me to conceive of any other post-fall Seb/John; you probably don't have to have read it to understand this, but if you haven't read it yet, why are you still reading this go read it right now go go go

 

Sebastian wakes, sweating, from a dream about blood and Jim’s eyes and hands and mouth, all three dark and hot on his skin. It’s far enough along in the year that he is barely sweating, and he takes a moment to be grateful that the sheets aren’t drenched and Johnny won’t ask questions—or that Johnny won’t pointedly  _not_  ask questions. Worse, the fucker.

 

But the sheets are dry enough and Johnny is asleep, warm and heavy against Sebastian’s side, one leg just barely over his, calf to calf. He’s breathing a little heavy, thick; when he’s pretending to be asleep he breathes more quietly. He murmurs in his sleep, sometimes, when Sebastian wakes up from a nightmare—soothing things, meaningless, so automatic that Seb is not sure he knows he does it. But they help, in a stupid way that Sebastian will not ever admit in the light. Some of it’s pure comfort, like Johnny’s body against his, mumbles of  _shh, you’re alright, Sebastian, I’ve got you_ —and some of it is the distraction of irritation, that the bastard actually thinks he can make it alright by saying it. Arsehole. Like no one had ever thought to just say “it’s alright” and that could suddenly fix it.

 

 Johnny doesn’t have nightmares, not anymore. The first few months he would wake Seb up, sometimes, with the screaming—once Seb woke up with John’s hands at his throat and it was a long moment before either of them knew what was happening. But John sees Ella every week, now, and he has not woken screaming in months.

 

Sebastian still has nightmares. Still wakes up not knowing where he is, arching off the bed in pain, sweat dripping—sometimes he even remembers them, shattered bits of things he may or may not have lived through, dust in his mouth and sand gritty in his wounds, the sound of a growl in darkness and a figure in a suit sliding a knife slowly under his skin.

 

Sebastian has had nightmares for years and, if he thinks about it, he supposes he always will. He doesn’t mind, though he could do without Johnny’s daylight pity.

 

This was not a nightmare. He does not wake up from nightmares aching, already mostly hard, his mouth dry and his throat tight and desperate. This is another kind of dream entirely; one he has—often enough, and he wakes up to Johnny’s smirk and a wet patch. Sometimes he wakes up to Johnny heavy-eyed and still smirking, the bastard, and then the sheets—well.

 

He’s had this kind of dream before. But usually it’s about no one in particular, really; scraps of things that mostly haven’t happened, big-titted models from telly ads and men he saw at the market and people he half-remembers from Afghanistan. John’s there, often enough, fragments of him that blur into waking without Seb ever really knowing when the switch is made.

Not Jim, though. Sebastian does not have this kind of dream about Jim, does not remember this kind of thing. Jim drowned the sex out with violence, and that is how Seb remembers it, sucking Moriarty off with his mouth full of copper and salt, dripping down his throat. He doesn’t remember very often the other kind of sex, after, when Sebastian was trembling and spent in almost every way, and Jim was limp and sated, warmer even than Johnny against him, crooning in his ear,  _Good boy, Sebby, Tiger_ , gentler and more dangerous and complete than Johnny ever is, his hand gentle and teeth not quite sharp against—

 

This isn’t helping. Sebastian is still hard, harder, and he shifts his hips, pushes up against blankets. John’s leg shifts against his, and he goes still, waits for Johnny’s breath to go slow again before he slides his body out, a few careful inches away from him. John’s face twitches, not quite disgruntled or confused, and his right hand clenches familiarly before releasing.

Sebastian pushes his hand under the blanket, and wonders if he should feel guilty. Maybe, he thinks, palming himself through his pants, maybe this is a kind of betrayal—not because he is thinking of another man with Johnny sleep-innocent beside him, but because he is thinking of Jim. Jim, who wanted John on a leash, who wanted John broken and weeping and helpless in ways Sebastian cannot quite bring himself to want of anyone. Jim who barely knew John’s name, who only wanted him because fucking Sherlock did.

 

Sebastian had not cared, then. He wouldn’t say he cared now—not about John, not like that, something stupid and pointless; but he cared what happened, now. He’s heard the noises Johnny makes when he’s practically helpless, the thready breathless beg of him, body arching.

Seb wanted what Jim wanted, two years ago. Wanted it automatically in a way that had nothing to do with desire, everything to do with loyalty and faith and dependence.  

 

Now Seb wants—he still wants it now. He still wants Johnny’s voice hoarse with pain, unmade and weeping, desperate and pleading and— _fuck_. He slides his hand inside his boxers, biting the inside of his mouth, and his hand is too dry, rough, and it’s chafing and he remembers—

Jim taking him like this, dry, no slide to his cock as he pushed into Sebastian’s arse and it must have hurt him, too, but he laughed. Seb grunted instead of screaming and Jim giggled, slapped the area of Seb’s thigh right below the rope, and it tingled more than it should have, blood fighting through. “Going to  _bleed_  for me, Tiger? Slick me up with your blood to make it  _easier_ , make it  _hurt less_?” After Seb comes Jim leaves him tied there, muscles cramping. When he finally cuts the ropes, Seb cannot twist away from the knife.

 

John’s hands shaking slightly in a way neither of them will mention, later, and his finger is slick and sticky and careful, doctor precise and knowledgeable. He’s good at this in a way that would say  _practice_  if it weren’t for med school, and Sebastian makes a startled noise as John brushes his prostate, gently, rhythmically.  “Good?” John asks, a little cocky and a little scared, like he knows the answer but he has to hear it to be sure. “Yeah,” Sebastian replies, breathless, and it’s not nearly fucking enough.

 

And Johnny—Johnny who is so careful with Sebastian, so sensitive every time, still, who looked startled and reproachful when Sebastian tried to use spit instead of lube. “Don’t be an idiot, Sebastian—that’s dangerous. You have to be careful with—this kind of thing.” He cannot say fuck or bugger or even arse, not even when it’s happening, not even when Sebastian is knuckle-deep in him and twisting his finger, and he’s pushing up at Seb’s throat, his hands in Seb’s hair—but carefully, so carefully, never too far or too hard, as though John is keeping a count of exactly when Sebastian needs to breathe—and his cock is twitching against Seb’s tongue and he is making those high pitched almost-noises. Not even then. And Sebastian thinks of Johnny under him—tries to think of Johnny wanting it, wanton and desperate, begging for Seb’s cock in him,  _gagging_  for it—but all the begging Seb’s ever heard has been  _stop_  and  _don’t_ , and all he can hear is John saying  _No, please, god—Sebastian, don’t, I can’t—please, please, oh god, please don’t do this_  and he can see it, what it would look like, John’s hands straining and purple with blood against the rope, the bitten look of his lips, eyes made wide with fear and not-quite tears, neck straining as he tries to turn his head far enough to see Seb. The solid feel of his ribs under Sebastian’s fist, against his boot. _Please, I’ll—I’ll suck you off, Sebastian, please, let—my mouth, please, not—not that_. The push of his head against Seb’s hand, hands behind his back, fingers clenching and useless, on his knees as Sebastian holds his neck and pushes his head against the ground, smearing blood and spit on the wooden floor. The helpless movement of his hips trying to cover himself, protect himself. The gasp that is almost but not quite all pain, and, oh but Seb  _wants_  that last little piece, the piece of John that will arch and press back and moan.

Because he doesn’t just want to hurt Johnny. That’s easy, that’s nothing he has to work to get, it’s a knife or a blow and it’s not something he craves. It’s not just pain that makes his bones itch, makes his palm burn, pushes against his eyes.

 

He doesn’t want Johnny hurt. He wants him broken. He wants to unmake John, peel him open and see what’s inside. Sometimes he almost wants it literally, wants to see what John looks like under his skin. Wants to lick the blood off raw flesh, watch it seep out, press his body against it. Feel it run down him, hotter than his own. His cock is slick with precome, now, and his hand slides easily—still slow, so he won’t shake the bed.

 

He didn’t know he wanted these things, with Jim; he thought they just happened and he bore them. But now it’s gone and he wants it. He wants the sharp crack of small bones breaking under his heel, the ripe feel of a lip splitting against his knuckles, white flashing smeared and bloody. He wants to dig things out and push them in and he wants the moment when they stop screaming, the moment where they stop even trying.

 

He wants to feel John give up. He wants John limp under him. He wants Johnny to mumble his name, slur it out of a bloody mouth, hoarse from screaming, eyes dazed and heavy-lidded. It’s sweet, like that, Sebastian knows— _sweet as spun sugar_ , Jim used to say, watching Seb work himself into a target. Push a man far enough and he stops thinking—stops being able to think. He’s just nerve endings and reactions, then, and Seb learned how to use that from the best. Knows how to fuck a man so that it hurts and burns—and knows how to fuck a man so it doesn’t, so he sees stars, so he comes under Sebastian, every nerve pulled tight and singing. And he could make Johnny sing. He could wring every scrap of sound out of the smaller man—so that when he came it would be silent, arching and thrashing against Sebastian the way he does not quite now. And he could keep going—he could fuck him  _raw_ , blood pulsing right under his skin. 

 

John might come again, from that. When he’s done begging, flinching away, Seb could bring him off a second time, body already sweat-soaked (sweat mixing with blood, salt stinging in bites and scrapes and  _fuck_ ), face twisting and mouth moving silently, and if John was helpless before it would be  _nothing_  to this, he’d be a mewling feeble mess and Seb would  _have_  him and—and— _fuck._

John stirs as Sebastian comes, rolls closer and drapes an arm over Seb’s stomach. “Wet,” he mumbles, complaining, and then, teasing and sleepy, “Good dream?”

Sebastian leans out of bed, grabs a tee shirt to wipe off with. He pauses—“Yeah,” and smooths the hair out of John’s face. “Go back to sleep.”


End file.
